


How to Disappear Completely

by babypinkproko



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-07 02:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12223581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypinkproko/pseuds/babypinkproko
Summary: "You're going to overdose for real next time."





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s gonna end soon,” Proko slurs, nestled deep in his shopping cart. 

Jiang arches an eyebrow, glances down at him but doesn’t stop pushing. It’s too goddamn hard to get the thing going again over uneven dirt. 

“Fuck you, Proko,” he answers, irritated. “What does that even mean?” 

Jiang knows exactly what Proko means, but he won’t say anything. He’s met with an equal measure of silence from the bottom of the cart. 

Frustrated, he keeps moving until he comes upon an old rusted Chevy. Shoves with all his strength and sends Proko flying into the side, but Kavinsky has really outdone himself this time. Proko doesn’t even stir. 

It looks like he isn’t even breathing. 

Jiang yanks his arm roughly, more afraid than he’s willing to admit. "Wake up, damn it.” 

It takes a few seconds before Proko’s colorless eyes slide open, gaze unfocused and empty. 

“S'gonna end soon, Jiang."


	2. Chapter 2

Skov pulls Proko from the back of the Supra under Jiang’s direction. He’s starting to perk up now, but doesn’t offer any resistance as he’s lifted out of the car.

Jiang would do this himself, except that Proko is infinitely taller than him. Instead, he keeps a watchful eye, hands balled into fists at his side.

Swan stands next to him, arms crossed.

-

“Sleep it off, sweetheart,” Skov murmurs, bent over Kavinsky’s bed, hand resting in Proko’s hair.

Proko looks nearly unconscious again, eyes half lidded, not even tracking their movements.

Jiang tenses when Kavinsky appears at the door.

He walks over to the bed, eyes distant and dead. Wraps his hand around Proko’s throat, fingers testing as he jerks his chin, silently ordering the rest of the pack out of the room.

Jiang hesitates, ready to spit and fight, but Kavinsky’s heavy gaze levels on him and Proko looks like he’s already given up. As much as it hurts, he knows Proko would tell him to go.

He leaves, shutting the door and shrouding them in darkness.

Proko doesn’t think he could bear to look up at Kavinsky right now, anyway.

“You’re going to overdose for real next time.”

It’s not anything Proko was expecting. If he strains his ears and wishes hard enough, he can almost hear concern in Kavinsky’s voice.

“You going to stop me?” He asks, raspy, exhausted.

Silence.

He shouldn’t have expected anything different.

“S'what I thought, motherfucker.”

It’s perhaps the wrong thing to say, challenging Kavinsky when he’s already made his disinterest known. He’s only going to hurt himself in the process.

In response, Kavinsky tightens his hand over his throat, keeps it in place until Proko sees flashes of light behind his eyes. He doesn’t struggle, distantly remembers begging for this not even a week ago.

“You belong to me,” he says, leaning close, breath warm over Proko’s face as his lungs start to burn. “Didn’t your mother teach you to respect other people’s things?”

Proko would laugh in Kavinsky’s face if he weren’t about to pass out. Just when the light from under the door starts to fade, the grip over his neck falls away and he gasps, choking and rolling onto his side.

Kavinsky gets an arm under him and pulls his shoulders onto his lap. It’s awkward as hell coming from a boy that bashed someone’s teeth in for putting their cigarette out on the tire of their car. A boy that wouldn’t hesitate to put a cigarette out on you if he couldn’t be bothered to crush it under his heel.

He doesn’t say anything. It’s silent for a long time except for the sound of Proko’s breathing. He presses his face against Kavinsky’s sunken stomach and wishes he could fall asleep here. Kavinsky is never tender, but his fingers curl through Proko’s hair and he almost whines.

“Get your shit together,” Kavinsky says finally, fingers tightening and pulling, rough.

Proko’s almost worried he meant to collect his things from his room, but Kavinsky adds, clarifying, “You’re not dying unless I kill you myself.”

“Okay,” Proko answers, voice falling flat, because there’s nothing else to say anymore. Kavinsky can’t stop him from dying. Even if he cuts off the source of drugs, dream liquor, firearms, and fast cars, there are others who will deal with him.

He knows it’s coming to an end, fast as a fucking bullet train, and he’s got no interest in stepping out of its path. 

It’s what he wants.

It’s what he deserves.

It’s what he’ll get at the end of everything.

Proko sighs heavily, lets his body sag against Kavinsky’s grip, and shuts his eyes.


End file.
